The Legend of the Frost
by binayak95
Summary: Ciri is on the run again; but this time she jumps into Tamriel, or more specifically into Skyrim, where she runs into a very powerful and very helpful pair. Chaos ensues. Set after the end of the events of Skyrim (and the DLCs) and before the events of The Witcher 3
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hello everyone, this is my fifth fanfiction, and the first in the Witcher X Elder Scrolls Genre, I hope and pray that this turns out well and that unlike the previous fanfictions, I am able to complete it.**

 **A small notice, I have a blog of my own, where I'll be posting updates before I post them here.( they'll be smaller) So, please do follow that if you wish to learn more of the story.**

 **.com**

 **Read on and Enjoy!**

 **Chapter 1**

They had found her, once again- it should not have taken her by surprise- they always did find her- but she had managed to hind in this world for the longest so far- four whole peaceful months.

But that didn't matter anymore, she thought bitterly, she had to run once again, jump across space and time, seek shelter elsewhere before doing it all over again.

She was running towards the cliff face, the shrubs scratched and clawed at her arms and legs as she dashed headlong, heedless…. Suddenly, ahead the trees and bushes melted away, like a curtain drawn away, bright, blessed sunlight! The sound of waves crashing over rocks and the salty tangy breeze were taunting her, promising freedom, only if she could take the last step!

She paused at the edge of the precipice, breathing hard, she took in the beautiful vista before her- a red sun was setting over the bay, gulls soared high above, flying towards their nests- how she wished she could stay there a few moments longer, but even as she stood there, she could hear the thundering hooves of the armored mounts of the Wild Hunt- they were close. A final deep breath later and she jumped- headfirst towards the churning waters below!

* * *

 ** _Kaer Morhen, Midnight_**

He woke up with a start, the nightmare quite vividly etched into his consciousness- his daughter was in trouble- as usual- but this time, she needed his help, really needed it and he'd be damned if he couldn't come to her aid! His decision made, the White Wolf, as the man was famously known, jumped out of the bed, donned his armor and the two swords- one silver and the other, steel.

 _The silver was for monsters and the steel- for humans._

* * *

 ** _Vizima, the Imperial Court of Nilfgaard_**

 ** _Midnight_**

She knew what her dream meant, knew what she had to do- but there were so many questions, so many things that she yet didn't understand.

Sometimes - sometimes she felt like tearing out her luscious black hair! She called her 'daughter' and she was, of that there was no doubt, but she took after her father in far too much for her liking.

A grim smile, born of memories of happier days, flashed across her face and her violet eyes gleamed with sudden and fierce determination- she would find her sole daughter, no matter the cost!

* * *

 ** _The Pale, Skyrim, Tamriel_**

 ** _23_ _rd_ _of Frostfall, 4E 409, Midnight_**

He knew very well that something epoch making was about to occur, he usually did his damnedest to avoid these sort of events- but sometimes, ehh most of the time, he was smack in the middle of it.

His presence in this godsforsaken tundra, with a blizzard in full force howling outside the cave, and a hot, beautiful, immortal vampire, lying down beside him, could be traced back to a dream, the first of a series of as yet unending line up, that came to him two weeks ago.

That first dream, and every dream since, had showed him the very cave he was in, west of the Pale Imperial Camp, along the frozen shore, a cave from where he could see the wreck of the Brinehammer in the distance. In the dreams, he had felt a pressing need to come here, and had a strong gut feeling that he would somehow have to save the world once again (And the Thalmor would claim credit for it, again).

In the beginning, he had determined to completely ignore the dream, he had enough of world saving quests, thank you very much-but alas, the blasted things persisted day after day, and he was forced to set out from his home in Solitude. He knew or rather had a very shrewd guess about who was behind these dreams of his, but alas! He lacked any concrete proof-yet.

Thus, he was here, with the beautiful Serana for company and inspite of himself, he found that he was looking forward to whatever he was going to get involved in. The last few years had been awfully dull, though peaceful.

"The weather is clearing," a melodious voice broke his inner monologue and he turned around to find Serana getting up, and peering out. And indeed, the weather was clearing, the wind had died down and the pale moonlight was shining through the flurry of snow and frost… Momentarily, things became completely calm and the aurorae came out in all their glory.

"It's quiet- too quiet, like the calm before the storm- I don't like this - not one bit," Serana said.

He didn't reply, he had already drawn his sword- 'Vahrot' or 'Oath'- and had stepped outside the cave. She joined him momentarily, her own slender blade drawn and beautiful, if deadly, arcs of raw energy flickering across the fingers of her left hand.

"What is it?," she asked.

"I don't know, but something has shifted in the very fabric of the universe," he replied- his voice, low and grave, no longer was the care-free Thane of all Skyrim visible, in his place was Brynjar- Dovahkiin!

"What do you mean?" she asked again, worry lacing her tone for the first time that night.

"The space around feels like whenever I travel to Apocrypha, the realms of Hermeus Mora. It feels like our realm is being linked to another. This isn't good."

"That sounds ominous… I thought that inter-world travel had been banned by Akatosh- especially after Martin Septim had sacrificed himself- then how?"

"Invasion of Nirn by otherworldly forces is forbidden- but it is impossible to physically close each and every means of accessing this particular realm- given that there are hundreds if not thousands of realms and an infinite number of ways of accessing them. But we're getting ahead of ourselves- we don't know who is coming or what is happening…"

Even as he was speaking, a bright turquoise point of light seemed to manifest itself in front of them, about ten or so feet above the snowy fields in front of them.

A moment later, the light coalesced before exploding outwards in a brilliant shower, blinding the two of them…

When his vision cleared, Brynjar saw a young maiden lying face down in the snow; sparing naught but a glance at Serana, he rushed forward, albeit with sword still drawn.

"She looks human enough, so much about your theory of inter world travel," Serana smirked, punching his shoulder.

"This isn't the only world with humans in it… and look at her hair, ashen? Which human in this world has ashen hair? And the sword is of uncommon design as well, though it seems more, what is the word I'm looking for? Graceful… yes graceful for a longsword… the runes, do you recognize them?"

"No, although they vaguely resemble elven runes…. so, what should we do?"

"Take her into the cave and take care of her till she wakes up, then lets see if she can answer our queries."

* * *

 ** _The Pale, Skyrim_**

 ** _24_ _th_ _of Frostfall, 4E 409, Early morning._**

When she came to, she found herself in a cave, lying on soft furs, with a campfire heartily cracking away somewhere to the left and behind her, warming her legs. She could feel her sword, Zirael, lying by her side. Clearly whoever had found her, meant her no harm. That or they felt that she was no threat.

 _Naive or superbly skilled in combat._

She got up slowly, and found, greatly to her surprise that her wounds had been all healed… not only the superficial scratches that she had got from her sudden flight through the bushes and brambles but an older deeper wound in her chest had gone as well, the now familiar ache replaced by a welcome wholesomeness.

Even as she stood, fastening her sword to her back, she could tell that she was in a deeper part of the cave, the entrance being slightly ahead of her, a cold draft blowing in from thence. The cave also extended further back. She had been laid down in a small alcove, just perfect for her, the sword and the fire.

Momentarily, she heard a voice, feminine and melodious from the direction of the entrance, and then another, a male, deep and pleasant before stopping. She leant against the wall, in an attempt to eavesdrop on her conversation and yet, found that she couldn't hear anything- not even footsteps!

"You know, its rude to eavesdrop on people, especially when those very people have just rescued you from certain death," the lady said. Ciri had the decency to blush, but defended herself.

"Sorry, but force of habit… I've enemies, very determined and ruthless ones."

At that the lady, who was beautiful, with flowing raven black hair and startlingly crimson eyes that bored into hers, exchanged a glance with someone behind her, making her whirl around to find herself face to face with a man, no, a warrior.

"Well, that's disconcerting, but you're safe here." the man replied, smiling warmly at her. Ciri studied him carefully, yet another man who sought to help her, and who, like others before would come to grief because of her. He was wearing plate armor, black as the deepest pit with blood-red highlights. A cloak, made from the fur of what must have been a great white bear graced his shoulders, and the hilt of a longsword emerged from between his shoulders, with the pommel shaped to resemble a dragon head. The man was tall, with warm brown eyes and dark, almost black hair cropped short in the fashion of soldiers everywhere. He had a handsome face as well, almost in the shape of Geralt himself. As a point of fact, she was very much taken aback by how strongly he resembled Geralt, especially with the sword on his back.

The woman, on the other hand, was very much like a Lady, a high-born one in fact.. with the way she carried herself, proud and arrogant, unafraid to flaunt her beauty… She too was armored, with leather, with plates reinforcing the important areas. There was a slender saber at her waist as well, and a silver rimmed cloak graced her shoulders.

"Introductions first, I think," the man said, smiling still, "I'm Brynjar, Legate of the IXth Northern Heavy Cavalry. My beautiful companion is Serana, a mage"

The now-introduced Serana scoffed at that, as if she found something funny in the introduction, but she didn't elaborate on it.

"I am Cirilla," she struggled for a moment, _what was she? Daughter to Geralt and Yennefer? Yes, of course, but what about her elder blood? A witcheress? But she didn't have the twin blades, nor had she completed her training… A princess and heir to all of the North? Yes, but was that something she wanted?_

"A witcher." She said eventually.

The pair, and they certainly were one, exchanged a glance again. "Unfamiliar term, 'witcher', but given the pride with which you speak of it, and the sword on your back, are we right in assuming that you're a warrior, of some sort?" the woman asked.

"Yes… witchers are warriors who are paid to kill monsters. We are specially trained to tackle them. I belong to the school of the wolf."

The man had been studying her quite thoroughly, and suddenly leaned forward looking right at her and said, "I'll be blunt; you're not from this world, are you?"

Shocked by the sudden question, Ciri wondered how Brynjar knew. _Perhaps it isn't an unusual thing for this world?_

"I'll take your silence for a yes. It's very simple, you look like no human of this world, and you speak of things that do not exist here. That means you are either mad, which seems unlikely, or given the way you arrived, and the nature of my dreams, you are from another world. So, what brings you here?"

Brynjar pressed.

"I will be gone soon, I can't stay for long here… Especially when people here know of me." Ciri said, dejected.

"Who said anything about people here knowing anything. Your displacement field was very limited in magnitude and there are no mages anywhere near enough to pick up on it. I came here because I'm unique, tasked with protecting Tamriel; but let us talk about the enemies you mentioned earlier. Am I right that you're fleeing from them?" Brynjar asked.

Ciri nodded, she was getting more and more confused as this conversation progressed. "Yes, I'm running from what is known as the Wild Hunt. A group of spectral horsemen who are hunting me for my blood. They wish to use my blood or rather the latent powers in my blood to travel physically to my world and conquer it."

"Damn elves, always behind every nefarious plot. I used to like elves, you know, they are good, noble people as long as they are not in power. The moment they gain power, they become murdering, racist, bastards!" Serana spat.

Ciri was surprised to hear the venom in the woman's voice and Serana clarified, "there is a group of Aldmeri, or High Elves called the Thalmor who hate mankind and have waged war with the Empire and are as we speak involved in a mass genocide of the Bosmer or Wood Elves and the Khaijit. Tensions are running high between the Aldmeri Dominion and the Empire. War is expected anytime now."

"This Wild Hunt say, Gods forbid, but they manage to capture you and use your power- then theoretically they can come here and invade this realm?"

"Yes, of course. The Wild Hunt has already attacked and massacred the populace of several worlds- leaving them barren and almost uninhabitable. Thats the very reason I've doing my best to evade them," Ciri replied, "And the reason I can't stay here. They can track me whenever I make a jump."

"You will go nowhere. I wanna see just how strong these spectres are. Besides Nirn, or this universe is protected from invasions by otherworldly forces by a sacrosanct covenant, one bound by the blood of a Divine and those of his sons, shed time and time again." Brynjar said decisively, glaring at her, challenging her to argue.

Ciri, surprising herself, agreed. She had been running for so long that sometimes she wished to face her persecutors in combat as well- and this might well be that chance, if everything Brynjar had said was accurate.

"So lets go home, shall we. Cirilla is better but I think she'll appreciate a warm hearth and nourishing soup," Serana intervened and Ciri agreed with great enthusiasm.

* * *

 ** _Kaer Morhen. The Main hall._**

"So, what do you plan to do? Ride all around the continent on Roach and shout 'Ciri' at the top of your voice?!" Vesemir asked. Lambert and Eskel looked on in amusement, as the normally taciturn witcher lost his patience with the White Wolf.

It was a rhetorical question, Geralt knew this, but his own temper was running high. "Damnation! Do you not understand? Ciri, the same Ciri who grew up here, amongst us, is in danger! She is my daughter by mine choice, and I'll not let anyone harm a single hair on her head!"

"An admirable goal, of course. I care about Ciri as well, but my question stands. What do you plan to do? How will you search for your daughter?" Vesemir repeated, calmly.

Geralt sighed, finally admiting to himself the true extent of his helplessness. "What do you suggest I do?" he asked of the older man.

"Contact Yennefer or Triss, both of them care deeply for Ciri and will no doubt aid you in finding her." Vesemir advised, "and to make sure of it, I'll accompany you."

"To Novigrad?!" Geralt asked in surprise, knowing well the old witcher's famed hatred for the city.

"Yes, even to Novigrad, if that is what it takes. For Ciri."

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" Geralt said, lets get ready.

* * *

 ** _The Pale, Skyrim._**

 ** _24_ _th_ _of Frostfall, 4E 409, Midday._**

"So, tell me again- the Navigator is the one who can open and close portals to different worlds, or maybe even call for reinforcements- so if we manage to break his staff, they'll be trapped here, for the time being?" Serana asked of Ciri.

"Yes- Navigators are rare and thus very valuable- we manage to kill of the reconnaissance group that they send first, then they won't send in more immediately- Eredin will deem it too risky. Then a major formation will assault- led by either Caranthir or Imlerith will arrive here. By that time, we can delude them into thinking that I'm elsewhere- difficult, yes but possible." Ciri explained her plan once again.

When Brynjar and Serana had suggested confronting the Wild Hunt, Ciri had been aghast… she tried her best to convince them, but they would have none of it. Brynjar started questioning her about the Wild Hunt's tactics- how would they arrive, numbers and strengths and within what time frame. Ciri was initially reluctant, but given her own desire for some way of hitting them back and the sheer stubbornness of her rescuers meant that she gave in. Eventually she realized that they could actually pull it of- if they were careful.

"We will do no such thing- Ciri, what can you do to make sure that the entirety of the Wild Hunt, including this king, Eredin appear here?"

Ciri was shocked into silence, but she soon recovered, "Are you fucking mad?! They'll slaughter the two of you- and the nearest town in anger, because I'll have to jump again!"

"Just answer the question, young one- and don't worry about us, we have faced worse demons than a spectral army of elven cavalry." Serana chided her.

"I refuse to answer any more of your questions- I'll not help you two with your suicidal delusions!" Ciri shouted, crossing her arms and turning away.

Brynjar laughed aloud, a great from-the-belly laugh, so hard that his eyes watered, "you are one spoilt child! Did I not tell you that invasion of Nirn by otherworldly forces is forbidden; I intend to enforce the covenant between Akatosh and the people of Tamriel- your Wild Hunt will perish in one great fire! Thus, the more of them there are, the better for us!"

Ciri's eyes had widened to comical proportions, her brilliantly jade eyes glimmered with hope! Hope, at last of putting an end to the running and hiding that had so consumed her.

"Very well, there is a way, if I jump again in this world, Eredin will confirm that it is me indeed, and he will arrive in force."

"Okay then, we'll head to Solitude, where you'll arm and recuperate and I'll acquire some supplies and allies- then you'll jump back here- see if that doesn't bring your Spectral riders."

* * *

 **So, how did you find it? Comment and tell me! Besides, remember to follow my blog: .com, updates there are much quicker.**


	2. Chapter 2: Developments

**AN: Sorry for the late update. But life must continue, and life rarely gives any of us the liberty to do as we please.**

 **Thanks for all the support and reviews. I've read them all and will address them separately later on, in the next chapter perhaps?! Depends if there are good enough number of them. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.**

 **I can make one promise. The third chapter will be coming out soon… very soon.**

 **Read on and tell me how you found this latest installment.**

 **One more thing… apparently links can't be copy-pasted in . So here's my blog site:**

 **penstrokes2016/wordpress/com. Just replace the '/' with '.' and you'll get there. Updates there are much much quicker.**

 **Chapter Two: Developments**

 _The road from Shor's Stone to Windhelm. 23_ _rd_ _of Frostfall, midday, 4E 410._

" _The war takes its toll on all of us- especially the young- they who have to live through the years if rebuilding- those tasked with the unforgiving and challenging task of he watchful peace."_

 _Tiber Septim, Emperor of all Tamriel_

The patrol had started with the worst possible omens- a thunderstorm a night before the due day- a storm that showed no signs of abatement- and thus foretelling, if nothing else, a miserable time ahead for the cavalry troops and their horses- no one, not even the Adjutant General, whom the grunts unanimously decried as the most sadistic whoreson- who breathed only to ensure greater 'training' for the men, not even he looked forward to riding through sheets of blinding rain, cold and numb and hunched down, in mute protest against the outrage of Nature and of orders that have to be followed- howling storms or otherwise.

But not even a Moth Priest could have foreseen the true depth of the misery ahead for the forty-man squadron of heavy cavalry. They were well and truly fucked- in deep thick shit- right upto the bridges of their noses.

The first sign of trouble was when they encountered a stream of orcs- mostly younglings herded by a few elder warriors running as fast as their legs could carry them towards the village of Shor's Stone.

Tribune Scala knew immediately that something was seriously amiss- he had the fortune of having a few Orsimer friends among the infantry corps and knew very well that they would never leave their strongholds in such numbers- especially in a group that appeared to be mostly children and youngsters.

He immediately brought the column to a halt and rode ahead with his standard bearer. What he learned would chill him to his bones.

* * *

 _One year ago, the Throat of the World_

" _Are we not_ _ **dov**_ _? Are we not the greatest creations of Our Father, Akatosh? Why must we submit to these insects- the mortal who teem in Kahzokaan by the millions?_

 _Just because Alduin, blessed be his name, has fallen?! I refuse! And I refuse to follow a pax! A traitor!" Vulthyrol roared at Paarthunax. "If he ever comes to hold dominion over us- than I tremble for the dov!"_

 _Paarthunax said nothing as the red dragon besmirched his name, merely listening passively to the dragonmoot._

" _We came to this dragonmoot at your urging- Odahviing! We've heard what Paarthunax had to say- and we tell you this- we'll not follow his Way of the Voice!"_

 _Some dragons, the elder ones prominently, looked disappointingly at Vulthuryol- it seemed that the dragons were splitting into factions. That was inevitable- given the fact that most dragons found themselves suddenly rudderless- adrift at sea- with nigh a shore in sight._

 _Paarthunax had hoped to convince the dov or most of them, to seek to isolate themselves and contemplate upon the wonders of their makers- of Akatosh and Kynareth- but unfortunately, it seemed that very few were actually willing to follow him._

 _All the dragons of Skyrim, well over the a hundred had gathered in the valley surrounding the Throat of the World- an unprecedented dragonmoot- something that had not occurred in thousands of years._

 _The dragons were all silent, as each contemplated Vulthuryol's outburst and his threat of civil war!_

 _The silence was profound enough to seem to the casual observer that someone had cast a spell of silence over the whole valley- for not even the calls of animals, the chirping of birds and the buzzing of bees could be heard._

 _Which made Brynjar's entrance all the more spectacular!_

 _After all, not everyday does an undead dragon dive out of the skies, roaring for all its substantial worth, with the dragonborn on his back._

* * *

 _The Winking Skeever, Skyrim._

 _24_ _th_ _of Frostfall, 4E 410, Evening._

The tavern was as raucous as ever, with the merrymakers singing rowdily along with the bard- who was singing Ragnar the Red- a local favourite.

In a corner table, sat three women, conspicuously armed and armored.

"Who is Brynjar? Really? He commands such respect amongst the people…. I swear I saw all the guards bow to him or dip their heads in respect… What is Dovahkiin? And some also called him Dragonborn? Whatever does that mean?" Ciri was asked of her new friends, Serana and Jordis. The man in question had gone off somewhere.

The vampire and the Huscarl burst into full-blown laughter, holding onto each other to keep them from falling down in hysterics.

"What, you can't blame me for being curious, all he told me was that he was a Legate of some cavalry force. How was I supposed to know that he was being modest, most men aren't." Ciri said defensively.

"I know.. what is funny is the fact that if you ask anybody in Skyrim this question, they'll think you've gone absolutely mad or you've lost your memory. Brynjar, the sweet man, is amongst the most powerful and loved men in Skyrim, perhaps even in the whole of the Empire. I'll tell you about him, but come let us sit somewhere cozy." Jordis said, still breaking into giggling fits every now and then.

"But you didn't answer my question? Who is Brynjar?" she asked as she was led upstairs by her new friends.

"We'll tell you all you need to know, but first, lets drink!"

* * *

 _White Orchard, Occupied Temeria_

 _Late evening_

A storm was lashing the countryside, turning the roads into muddy slush and making men pray for a warm hearth and shelter from the bitter, biting cold.

Yet, two men on horses rode through the storm, their heads bowed against the outrage of the wind, think waxed cloaks affording both them and their horses precious little protection against the elements.

"Looks like our side is doing badly in the war." Vesemir said in a voice so low that none but a witcher could hear him given the raging storm.

"Our side?! Since when did we have a side?" Geralt asked, surprise lacing his tone.

"We are northerners, aren't we? The North has always been our home, what other side could we have?"

"True, the north has always been our home, but given the way Radovid has been harassing and killing mages and nonhumans, how long do you think we have before he attacks us?" Geralt countered. "It has already happened before, it wont take much for the _people_ to attack us again."

"Both Emyr and Radovid are mad for power, and we are stuck between them." the old witcher agreed with Geralt's sentiments.

"Caught between a rock and a hard place."

"We are here, White Orchard, just beyond this hill."

"Finally! Lets just get out of this damn rain as quickly as possible." Geralt griped.

He kicked Roach into a full gallop, rushing past Vesemir. The older man chuckled as he followed suit, the two horses riding shoulder to shoulder through the torrent, kicking mud and slosh in their great strides, their breaths like two bellows- pumping steam into the cold night air.

The well-trodden path followed the curvature of the hill, banking gently to the right and as they turned around the corner, they heard an unmistakable screech. Sharing a glance with Vesemir, Geralt knew that it was a monster of some kind that awaited them ahead. Cursing the rotten weather one last time, Geralt slowed Roach down.

* * *

 _The Thoat of the World, Skyrim 24_ _th_ _of Frostfall, 410 4E, Earlier that morning._

Brynjar knew that he had to know more about this 'Wild Hunt' before he could come up with a plan to successfully engage them- and who better to ask about a group of world-travelling elves than the oldest living being? Or atleast the oldest he knew…..

Thus, he found himself atop the Throat of the World, awaiting his old friend and mentor, Paarthunax.

The grey one was nowhere to be seen, perhaps he had gone on a hunt, or maybe visiting some fellow dov? Paarthunax had become the de-facto leader of a faction of dragons who wished to live in peace and resume their role as Guardians of all Tamriel, as Akatosh and Kynareth had intended.

Helpless to do naught but wait, Brynjar decided to sit in meditation, contemplating the vastness of the realm of Kynareth that was the sky.

 _Some time later…._

He was still deep in meditation when he was roused by the distinctive percussive beats of a dragon's wings flapping. Opening his eyes slowly, Brynjar arose from the soft snowy bed and looked heavenward.

The flapping only grew louder, and the concussive beats began to jar his teeth, when Paarthunax emerged from behind the mountain peak, circling once around the mountain, before landing carefully on the Word Wall-the very wall where he had learned the third word of the Fire Breath shout- Shul or Sun.

"Greetings, Paarthunax." Brynjar called out.

"Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin. Welcome, its been some time since you stepped out into the world… I take it you have found yourself a new goal?" the kind dragon asked.

Brynjar would have asked if he was being observed- but he didn't want to know the answer to that…

Instead, he simply shook his head in disbelief, "I'll start from the beginning- for the last few weeks, I had been having dreams- dreams that I believe were messages from the Aedra; in theses dreams- I was drawn to the middle of a frostbound plain in the Pale. The dreams became so persistent that I went there to investigate two days ago," Brynjar broke off.

Paarthunax had been listening quite attentively and asked reflexively, "what happened, Ysmir?"

Smiling at the name he had been given by the Greybeards, Brynjar said, "a girl appeared in a sudden flash of blue and heat. She was injured, and unconscious; Serana and I cared for her and she came to early the next morning. She's a child really …. Ciri, that's her name, she has the ability to travel through space and time to different worlds. She told us that she had been running from world to world, from timeline to timeline, being hunted everywhere by what she called the 'Wild Hunt'. This Wild Hunt are a group of elves called the Aen Elle, who inhabit another world and periodically invade and conquer other worlds."

"Hmm," Paarthunax spoke, his su'um being recognised by Nature herself as the mountain trembled ever so slightly, "you bring grave matters to heed, Dovahkiin. **Hevno hon morah!** "

"The matter of this traveling between words does not surprise me, nor do I think does it you. We both know that there are far too many worlds and numerous routes of traveling between them- despite the pact between **zeymah** Talos and **Pah-Bromah**. But this matter of the Wild Hunt does trouble me. Hmm.. perhaps yes." the dragon nodded to himself, "I've a question for you, Dovahkiin, why does this Wild Hunt seek this **Kiir** , Cirilla, as you named her?"

Brynjar smiled ruefully, "its a matter of the Blood again, my friend, her blood carries great power. The Wild Hunt seek to use her powers to move entire armies to other worlds, while now they are limited to smaller numbers."

"Where is she?"

"In my home in Solitude, **Wuth Gein**. Both Serana and Jordis are watching over her, she'll come to no harm." Brynjar assured the elder dragon.

" **Pruzah**. Bring her here sometime, I wish to look her in the eyes myself. As for this Wild Hunt, I may know someone who could help you. There is a dovah whom we call the Curious One. He has painstakingly studied the histories and the stories of all races of Nirn… he knows the origin of the Elves that now call Tamriel their home. Seek him, he'll aid you…"

Brynjar didn't know quite what to say…. A dragon historian?! The world still retained its ability to surprise him, it seemed, after all that he had seen and done. _Good to know._

"Where does he live and what is his name" Brynjar asked.

"Somewhere in the Velothi mountains, close to the border with Cyrodiil. His name is Rokwonik.. go with Odahviing- it'll be faster for you."

 _He who is wise…_ Brynjar thought, _aye, fitting I suppose._

Brynjar agreed- the sooner he knew about the Aen Elle- the better.

" **OD-AH-VIING!"**

* * *

 _It_ was a Royal Griffin, one that had been terrorizing the countryside for quite some time. Geralt and Vesemir were fortunate enough to stumble onto the Griffin when it was attacking a merchant. The fellow had been prodding along on his cart, unable to see much beyond a few feet of the road, lighted up by the lamp hung from a pole on his cart, when the Griffin attacked.

Diving down from up high, the griffin swooped in with its talons, breaking the horse's neck in a single feral blow. The animal fell where it stood, and the Griffin tore into its flesh, not even giving the man a second glance.

The poor trader had taken refuge underneath his cart when Geralt and Vesemir rode in, silver swords held high and ready to strike! They drove off the griffin without any problems- though Vesemir got nicked in the shoulder- hard.

Seeking to thank his saviours- the man directed them to a nearby tavern, whose innkeep was his cousin.

Geralt and Vesemir were grateful- and looked forward to spending the night with a roof over their heads and warm food in their bellies. Little did the White Wolf know how life changing his stay in the inn would be.

* * *

 _The Imperial Court of Nilfgaard,_

 _Occupied Vizima._

"Your Imperial Majesty, I came as soon as I was told that you sought me," Yennefer of Vengerberg, founding member of the Lodge of Sorceresses bowed before Emhyr Var Emreis.

"Lady Yennefer, I have a task of great import for you. My spies tell me that Cirilla has returned. She has been seen in Skellige- you must find her and bring her back." The emperor said, standing from the chair that he had been sitting in. Yennefer marked to herself how tired the Emperor looked- long gone was the victorious Monarch who had gobbled up the Northern Kingdoms one by one without any difficulty- problems in Velen and Radovid's tactical brilliance now hung like proverbial swords over his head- and it was visible in the receding hair line- and a general disheveled appearance.

Nonetheless, all of her observations were meaningless in the light of the fact that her own instincts had been proven right- Ciri was indeed back- and there was only one man who could find her- the question was how to convince the Emperor that it was a good idea?

* * *

Scala was astonished to hear what the orcs had to tell them.

The orcs had come under attack, late in the night before- their stronghold of Narzulbur- ransacked and destroyed- most of their warriors fought to the death- and in an orc stronghold- that meant almost all of the adults. The rest, young and old, and the few warriors left alive- fled towards the nearest Imperial outpost- Eastmarch camp. The orc who led the group- a veteran of the Imperial Legions, described the attackers as Spectral Riders- wearing plate mail that completely encased the warriors- leaving no trace of who or what was underneath- even their horses were fully armored. Mere moments before the attack- a fierce cold gripped the stronghold- the air grew so cold that their breath froze in the air- frost coated all open surface and the strongest hearth-fire proved ineffective.

Then, war horns! Unearthly wails that brought the chief and his warriors out into the open- right before the solid oak gates of the stronghold- gates that had stood for decades- shattered into pieces- and the riders rode in- yelling fierce war cries. Their chief- Mauhulakh rallied their warriors into a shieldwall- but it became evidently quite quickly that it would be a massacre- so he ordered everyone to withdraw through a secret passageway in the mines.

"What should we do, Tribune?" Centurion Gaius- his most senior soldier, asked.

"I know not, Centurion." Turning to the orc warrior, Scala said, "we will avenge your chief and your fallen warriors- they died a beautiful death- in defence of their land and their families- but to lead my men into what could be a suicidal attack would be stupid. We will report back to the Legate and escort your people to Eastmarch Camp."

* * *

Guide to the dragon language words used in this chapter:

 **Hevno hon morah:** harsh news to contemplate

 **Zeymah:** brother. Tiber Septim was Dovahkiin- dragonborn- thus brother to all dragons

 **Pah Bromah:** all father, a reference to Akatosh- chief of the Nine divines and creator of all dragons.

 **Kiir:** child

 **Wuth Gein:** the Old One, one of the many titles of Paarthunax.

 **Pruzah:** good.


	3. Chapter 3 : The Storm Breaks

**AN: Hello folks! Chapter three is ready at last…! Many many apologies for the delay, but it couldn't be helped.**

 **And if you feel like the three chapters are slow, than you are correct, that is deliberately so- as per my plan, the fourth chapter will literally explode with fast paced plot devices.**

 **Enjoy this chapter and as always, your comments and reviews are much appreciated.**

* * *

 **Chapter 3: The Storm Breaks**

 _Flashback continued: On the creation of the Order of the Nine_

 _One year ago, The Throat of the World_

" _I completely agree with my friend here," Brynjar gestured to Vulthyrol, smiling at the latter's growl- "dragons are indeed the most powerful and capable of all races on Tamriel. But we have completely forgotten our purpose in this world; weren't we created to nurture the child-like races that live in this realm- both man, mer and beast-folk. Indeed, given our inherent strength, wisdom and eternal life, it is our moral and ethical responsibility to shepherd the other races of Tamriel- to protect them and to guide them- for who is more wise than a dovah and who is more farsighted than the dov. Is this not what Kynareth and Akatosh wished for our race- to not just live at peace but to enforce it- to ensure that the no race harms the other?"_

 _Many of the gathered dov were nodding their cumbersome heads- some of the elder ones expressed their agreement vocally- recalling the initial days of Alduin's rule- when he was the most farsighted of all dov and his rule was benign and beneficial to all **joore**. _

_But Brynjar was far from done, "The mortals do not know this history of our creation nor will they trust us because of the actions of **you all** \- and your dragon cult. It is time we reminded the races of Nirn the true place of dragons in this world."_

" _ **Qahnaarin** speaks true. I am amongst the eldest of our race still alive- if I can be considered to be alive," Durnehviir added with a chuckle, "I remember the instructions of **Lok-Monah**. We were meant to be guardians and guides- the strongest and wisest of all- and thus **Gro Wah Niin** for all races."_

 _Brynjar knew that Vulthyrol and his compatriots wouldn't view this development positively, but he was hopeful of weaning most of the dov to his side so that when the time came he could eliminate Vulthyrol without any severe opposition._

 _He had long considered the problem of the dragons- what was one supposed do to with an entire race of sentient beings who had among them the strength to lay waste to all of Tamriel? The answer in yester years would have been to embark on a campaign of extermination- but the very thought left an extremely bitter taste in his mouth. He would never stand for that for the same reason he had cut off ties with the Blades when they wouldn't listen to reason and demand Paarthunax's head- or atleast Astrid did, Esbern was far more reasonable. Dragons were, he had discovered greatly to his surprise, for the most part simply uninterested in the going-ons of mortals- content to be left alone and leave all others alone._

" _So, tell us honestly Dovahkiin. What would you have us do?" a young dragon approached him, speaking for a large group of thirty-thirty five young ones._

" _I propose the creation of an order- an order of Dragons and mortals meant to keep the peace- to protect the innocent and to fight injustice no matter where it surfaces. We will earn the respect and dare I say, even the love of the other races- and here I am daring to dream- one day centuries later- people will speak of this day and how it solidified the legacy of dragons for all time."_

" _So," Brynjar asked looking into the eyes of the dragons gathered around him, noting with pleasure that most seemed rather enthused with the idea, "what say you?!"_

 _The resultant roar- a sound so loud- that it caused minor avalanches in the moutains surrounding the valley- was a clear omen of the winds shifting._

 _Of course it was one thing to decide on the creation of the order- which he and Odahviing had named the Order of the Nine, a throw-back to the old and now defunct Knights of the Nine and a deliberate thumbing of the nose at the door of the Thalmor- and quite another thing to get the authorities to accept the new development. It had taken a great deal of subtlety and a rather curious coincidence to get the emperor to agree- but that's a story for another time._

* * *

 _Early morning, 24th of Frostfall, 4E 410.  
Deep in the Velothi Mountians_

Brynjar had expected Rokwonik's abode to be atypical of most elder dragons- a lair with an ancient word wall atop the tallest mountain of the region.

The reality couldn't have been more different.

It had taken Odahviing all of two hours to reach the place deep in the Jerall mountains- on the frontier with Cyrodiil.

A magnificent castle – built into the space between two mountain ridges- towering and vast- the sight was truly breathtaking. Especially from high up in the air. Thanks to his superior vision, Brynjar was able to see the fort in all its glory- the exterior walls had a glassy finish- the entire structure seemed to have been made from liquid rock- lending the massive edifice a grace that gave the impression of being alien in its build.

"Impressive, is it not?" Odahviing asked, chuckling. "The Repository, that's what we name this place."

"Impressive doesn't do justice to what my eyes have seen, **fahdon** ," Brynjar muttered, very much in awe. "How was this place built?"

" **Naal faal Toor do un thu'um**. We placed heavy granite boulders, dug by our own claws- and directed by Rokwonik himself. Once the structure was built, we bathed it with dragonfire- melting the rock and licked the resulting liquid rock into shape."

"You mean," Brynjar hesitated, looking over the fort again, "this place was actually built by the dov?"

"Aye! This is the only place in all of Tamriel that I know that has been built by the dragons."

Even as Odahviing spoke, he banked to the left and dived through the clouds heading for the entrance- a large iron portcullis- no, it was made from ebony steel; iron would be far too easy to melt for the average dragon.

Even as he descended, two dragons- one with beautiful blue-green scales and the other- a dark silver emerged from hidden balconies in the edifice and cautiously watched their descent.

"This place is the very centre of all our accumulated knowledge and thus, its protection is sacrosanct. Even at the height of the first Dragon War, the Repository retained its neutrality," Odahviing explained.

"Will my presence cause any problems?", Brynjar asked.

" **Nid.** You're dovahkiin- you're without a doubt the strongest of us- and perhaps the wisest and most fair of us all. Your victory over Aluin and Miraak has ensured your acceptance amongst all dragons."

The pair landed, and Brynjar immediately jumped off; the two slowly and sedately ambled towards the waiting dov, and Brynjar felt glad that he was clad in his daedric armor and that he was carrying his greatsword. The familiar weight of the armor, and of his sword as it slung across his back imparted confidence, if nothing else.

"Welcome Odahviing. Welcome Dovahkiin. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?" the blue-green scaled dragon spoke, astonishing Brynjar- for it was a feminine voice, and a beautiful lilting one at that.

"You have me at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but I do not have the pleasure of knowing your name," Brynjar replied, schooling his face to hide his surprise. He had encountered female dov before- but they were very rare- they tended to avoid others and lived often in secluded nests. Infact, the ones he had met had all the arrogance and confidence of high born ladies- and tended to look down upon him- Conqueror of Alduin or not. But fortunately they seemed friendly enough- and there had never been a cause for conflict between him and the female dragons. Thus it was with some relief that he discovered that atleast one of the dragons here would be female.

"I am **Brit Vin Qah,** Dovahkiin." the female dragon spoke. " **Norok Dein** dovahkiin, and the pleasure is certainly mine," the other replied.

"I have come to seek an audience with Rokwonik. I need his advice."

"Very well. Please follow us."

* * *

 _Somewhere along the road to Novigrad._

Geralt knew not what had drawn him to this old tomb- but the entrance of the cave was marked with the wolf head. Whatever lurked in the darkness underneath- this place had once hosted the hideout of a fellow wolf- and that made exploring it worthwhile.

But still, this cave gave him the hackles. Drawing silver, he stepped deeper into the cave. He could already hear the growling of necrophages coming through the floor - a chamber underneath most likely. He walked further in, eyes and ears peeled for the slightest of clues to dangers further in the cave. Little did he know, he would face off with the most powerful being he had encountered yet.

The morning after he received Yen's letter, he found himself being drawn to a strange cave near the abandoned village. A yellow swallow was awaiting him when he woke up at the crack of dawn, sitting peacefully at his window sill. Intrigued, and quite aware of the significance of the bird, he approached it, and it flew away, hovering outside, gazing directly at him and trilling ever so softly. Alarmed, Geralt quickly donned his armor before strapping on both swords and the crossbow, and headed out, to find the bird still awaiting him on an upright wooden post.

He followed the bird to the cave and then watched with astonishment as the bird flew into the gaping hole in the hillside. This was getting stranger by the minute. He dismounted from Roach and tied his reins around a nearby tree's trunk, before drawing silver and stepping beyond the rim of the cave.

It was dark, not dark enough to warrant a dose of cat- but growing darker still with every step that he took. Twenty three paces in, and he realised that he couldn't hear a single sound- not the air howling through the chambers, not the dripping and gustling of water, not even the sound of any creatures- apart from the fluttering of the swallow that still, unerringly flew ahead.

Geralt took a dose of cat- just in case and followed the bird- his instincts were all telling him that he was walking into danger- great danger- but the result would surely be interesting.

It was good that he did imbue a dose of cat- else he wouldn't have spotted the woman who stood in one far corner of the cave wearing flowing robes over her shapely figure.

Before he could so much as hold his silver sword in a ready stance, she had already moved- cutting across the vastness of the cave-floor as swift as the wind- and she stood, a mere three feet in front of him.

She chuckled at Geralt's stupefied expression as he realized just what he was dealing with.

"Relax, wolf. I mean you no harm." She spoke in a soft voice that reminded him of the clear gurgling of mountain brooks in spring. The swallow that he had been following came and landed on her shoulder.

Geralt knew what he was dealing with- an ancient vampire- on the same level as Regis had been- and thus impossible for him to defeat and kill- and since she was claiming that she meant him no harm- he sheathed the silver blade.

"A witcher, all by lonesome. Whatever shall I do with you, wolf?"

He hadn't smelled her, his medallion wasn't trembling nor had he heard her footsteps. The only thing that made her stand out- that made her seem inhuman was her extraordinarily fast and graceful movements- and her exquisite clothes.

Almost every higher vampire that he had encountered had been vain in one way or the other. Regis had his fascination with herbs and alchemy and a penchant for hooches. This one apparently had a liking for exquisitely rich and fashionable apparel. She was wearing silks- of a deep rich burgundy colour- clothes that clung to her shapely and lithe figure. He couldn't see her perfectly, not in the darkness of the cave.

He had been drawn, instinctively to this cave, right in the middle of nowhere, but clearly visible from the main road that led to Velen and Novigrad. When he had first seen it, while tracking the Griffin for the captain of Nilfgaardian garrison, painted red and purple by the setting sun, he had been drawn immediately- struck with an impossible to ignore itch to explore that particular cave. An odd, fleeting yet gut-wrenching feeling, one that he knew only all too well- of fate and destiny.

Now, he regretted trusting that feeling- for the being in front of him was ancient beyond any comparison- dating back to the Conjunction, at least- and far stronger than any witcher could ever hope to be.

"I have no wish to fight you," Geralt said slowly, hand inching _away_ from the silver blade. "I was drawn to this cave- by you perhaps."

She laughed heartily at that, a beautiful sound- like the gurgling of a mountain brook on a clear spring morning at Kaer Morhen. "No, that wasn't me- incidentally, I too felt drawn here- to what end, we'll no doubt find out momentarily. What is your name, witcher?" she asked, her eyes narrowing, the irises glowing an ethereal blue-green as she peered at him.

"I am Geralt of Rivia. And what is yours, if I may ask?"

"Not the White Wolf himself! I have heard much about you, Geralt, not the least from Regis. My full name is a mouthfull, but my friends call me Luceiia."

He couldn't see her face in the dark, well nothing apart from the glowing irises, but he could swear that he heard a smile in the way she spoke.

"So, shall we?" Geralt gestured towards the depths of the cave.

"Lets."

Geralt found the situation extremely ironical- he was exploring a dark cave, one that could be infested with necrophages and the Gods knew what else, side by side with a higher vampire- a textbook definition of a monster, but one that Witcher lore forbode fighting against; because they were sentient and nigh impossible to defeat, let alone kill.

"Geralt, there are several lesser vampires within these caves- I can sense them now. Katakans, specifically. I can sense them now, they are raving mad and blind with bloodlust. Be on your guard," Luceiia said a few moments later.

They had descended so far into the caves that even the alight torch that Geralt carried did nothing against the all pervasive darkness. Nodding, he extinguished the torch and imbibed two potions before drawing silver.

"Black blood and cat?" Luceiia asked, not even glancing backwards. Geralt was shocked- it was true that the potions had very unique fragrances- but how could a vampire ever know them well enough to identify them?

"I once befriended a witcher, from the Griffin school. That was a very very long time ago… almost feels like several lifetimes ago." Luceiia said, quietly, answering the unasked question.

Before Geralt could think of a reply, a shrill roar echoed throughout the cavern- jarring his teeth and throbbing his sensitive ears.

* * *

 _24th of Frostfall, Midday, 4E 410._

 _The Repositroy, Velothi Mountains_

"So, all elves were once one people- a united tribe- who lived in a lost world. That world was destroyed and thirteen tribes set out to different worlds- trying to survive. The Aen Elle and Aen Seidhe are two of the thirteen tribes. The Aldmer were also one of the tribes- and arrived in Summerset isles several millenia ago…." Brynjar said, without looking up from the scrolls he was reading.

"Yes, that is true- the Aldmeris that the Thalmor speak of is actually a reference to their original home. The lost world that all elves once belonged to- of course this occurred many millenia ago and is forgotten by the mer that now live here."

Brynjar was no scholar- irrespective of being the Archmage of the College of Winterhold- but he couldn't fathom how an entire populace- or atleast a large number of them- could be moved from one world, one realm of existence into another….

Puzzled to the extreme, he asked this of Rokwonik.

"Energy of course- how do you think the armies of Oblivion spilled onto our shores during the Oblivion crisis, how do you travel to Apocrypha- Herma Mora's realm. You, of all people, _must_ have heard the legends of the Battlespire! The Shadow Legion trained there- atleast, they did till the Daedra destroyed the place during the Imperial Simulacrum! To think that a Septim could be so weak to be duped by his own battlemage!"

Brynjar shook his head in mock surprise, in his years amongst the dragons, he had discovered that they loved to hold **tinvak** , to converse with anyone who would listen to them- none more than Paarthunax himself; perhaps no longer- Rokwonik was proving to be more long winded than **Wuth Gein**. Not that he minded, the dov had centuries of knowledge and experience and he found their information very useful and enlightening.

Rokwonik, perhaps realising the dragonborn's inner monologue, returened to the topic at hand, "there are many portals or gateways that connect the various worlds- some are miniscule and beyond our reach while others are more easy to manipulate. Among the Aen Elle, there are certain bloodlines which are gifted with the ability to exploit these portals ."

"Hmm, what would you suggest to stop these Aen Elle from coming over here- I was thinking of invoking Akatosh and spilling my blood..." Brynjar explained, only to interrupted by a sharp gasp of breath by all four dragons.

"Do not ever do that, dovahkiin- your blood has great power- spilling it in that fashion will have unimaginable consequences for all life. That is a very last measure- when all of Nirn is burning with daedric hordes can you contemplate such a move. The Aedra do not take kindly to the casual spilling of their blood in such a manner." Odahving explained.

"But then, what did Martin Septim do?"

"Martin Septim was only a descendant of Tiber Septim- far removed from the original dragon-blood; but even his blood carried weight. And it wasn't his own blood that he spilled that fateful day- he broke the Amulet of Kings- which carried the blood of Akatosh himself," Rokwonik said, "were you to do something similar, I cannot say really say what will happen- but nonetheless it is not a good idea. Definitely a last resort."

Brynjar's hopes dashed, he sighed, "guess I'll have to deal with them the old fashioned way."

"That would be the best."

Before Brynjar could respond, Britvinqah flew into the chamber, with another dragon following her. The newcomer was visibly tired, heaving great breaths and beating its large wings sluggishly.

"Dovahkiin," the tired dovah, who Brynjar recognized as **Strun Do Ven** , said, "I bring urgent tidings from your Legion, the spectral elves that you had warned us about attacked and destroyed Narzulbur yesterday - the orc warriors were massacred and the survivors, mostly young and the old, have been brought back to Fort Greenwall by your soldiers. Legate Cauis is mustering forces near the Eastmarch camp for a counter-attack and requests your presence. Two dov from Bonestrewn crest were about to leave for a recce when I came."

He was pacing as the dragon delivered his message whilst the other dragons listened with growing interest.

Odahviing broke the silence first, "to attack and destroy an orc stronghold is no mean feat- even a dovah will be hard pressed to achieve said result. Looks like the Aen Elle have arrived in force, that too without anybody noticing. This affair grows more serious."

"Indeed; Dovahkiin you have learned all you could here, it is time for you to return and deal with this threat. I have but one more advice for you. The Aedra aren't the only ones who stand guard over the planes of Nirn. Seek out the Princes, they met yet help you," Rokwonik said.

Brynjar nodded, "thank you Strundoven for coming as quickly as you did- the flight here must have been taxing- take rest here before rejoining us. Rokwonik, thank you for your wisdom. Take care, all of you. Let us go, Odahviing..."

* * *

 **So, what did you think of this chapter? Leave behind reviews and tell me.**

 **Translations of the dragon-language used in this chapter:**

 **joore - mortals**

 **Qahnaarin – vanquisher**

 **Lok Monah – all mother ( a reference to Kynareth- mother Goddess )**

 **Gro wah niin – bound to them (mortal races)**

 **fahdon – friend**

 **Naal faal Toor do un thu'um – with the inferno of our shouts**

 **nid – no**

 **Brit vin qah – beautiful scales**

 **Norok Dein – fierce guardian**

 **tinvak – conversation**

 **Wuth Gein – Old one ( a reference to Paarthunax)**

 **Strun Do Ven – storm-driven**


End file.
